


cigarettes and chocolate milk

by elinadsy



Series: don't, don't, don't let's start [2]
Category: Sly Cooper (Video Games)
Genre: (recommend reading but not hugely required), (will add potential triggers as they come), Carmelita centric, Character Study, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, connecting drabbles, disregards Sly 3 in some aspects, explicit violence, im back and boy am i here to have a good time, set after Sly 2, set after the first fic in this collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-04-04 14:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14022147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elinadsy/pseuds/elinadsy
Summary: (everything it seems I like's a little bit stronger, a little bit thicker, a little bit harmful for me)Carmelita attempts to recuperate from months on the run, and begins the process of rebuilding her career. Unfortunately, things like her recently broadened life experiences, and Cooper leaving her notes that she can't bring herself to throw out, kind of get in the way.(set after the first work in this series, (un)predictable. Reading not required, but recommended.)





	1. rain, rain

**Author's Note:**

> im back!!!!
> 
> this is going to be a mostly Carmelita centric series of drabbles that do have over arching plot. I'm disregarding Sly 3 a fair bit with these, but may dip into it because i just can't help myself. 
> 
> right now, I have a vague idea of where the plot is heading, but who knows!!! i'm here to have fun!! there's gonna be explicit sexual content and violence (since carmelita is a detective after all it's kinda part of the job description). i'm doing heavy googling for police procedures so please take them with a pinch of salt lmao!!!!!!
> 
> enjoy!!!

Carmelita sits on that balcony, a cigarette in her fingers, the tip so close to her fur she’s risking getting singed. But it’s been a long day and a longer night, and she takes such a ferocious drag on the cigarette that it crumples.

 It’s been three weeks since Cooper tricked her, since he made a fool of her, and it’s only thanks to the overwhelming evidence and video footage Bentley sent her way that she’s been reinstated and reluctantly praised, all those embarrassing, _inaccurate_ accusations withdrawn.

 She grinds the cigarette into the cheap plastic table. She hates this motel with a passion, hates she’s been given this case, rounding up some of the Klaww Gang’s useless underbellied low life, the stragglers that are floundering to escape Interpol’s grip. She hasn’t been given round up detail like this for _years_ , but now, thanks to _Neyla_ , she’s working her way back up from the bottom, back to Junior Detective like she isn’t wildly over-qualified.

 “Well, there’s no need for that,” Amelia says in English, sitting next to her. The Senior Constable, a German wolf with pale blue eyes, looks disapproving. “What did that table do to you?”

 Carmelita fights back a remark, reminding herself she can’t afford to be rude to a (now) superior officer. And Amelia, one of the few people she actually _likes_ , doesn’t deserve her sharp tongue.

 “It’s been a long night,” she says in rusty German. Amelia smiles, appreciating the effort, and switches languages as well, speaking slowly.

 “Be patient. You’ll be back to Detective Inspector soon enough, we all know it.”

 Carmelita sighs. “I know. But this work, it is-” she pauses, trying to remember the right word.

 “ _Langweilig_?” Amelia offers.

 Carmelita frowns, and says in English, “I thought that meant unexciting?”

 “It’s pretty close to “boring”.”

 “Mm. Close enough.” Carmelita draws out another cigarette and lights it, switches back to German. “Not to mention, I should be _heading_ this entire investigation. I was the one who gathered all the initial intel, for Christ’s sake. Instead, they have Booke, who is as useful as tits on a _bull_.”

 Amelia laughs. “You aren’t wrong.”

 Carmelita exhales, taking care to turn away from Amelia so she doesn’t get a face full of smoke. And then, she says, carefully, casually, _disinterestedly,_ “Have they found the Cooper Gang yet?”

 Amelia looks at her. “You heard about that, huh?”

 Carmelita shrugs bitterly. “Well, haven’t you heard the rumours?” Her voice is light, but her stomach is heavy when she thinks of that moment in the helicopter, of Cooper’s teeth against her neck, his fingers brushing her clit through fabric.

 “They haven’t found anything,” Amelia says. “All the footage from the hospital was wiped.”

 Carmelita is unsurprised. Of course it was.

 “Their main concern is that the turtle isn’t medically fit to have been discharged,” Amelia continues. “They were planning to put him through physio.”

 Carmelita doesn’t comment. Bentley would have had other plans, and she doubts he would have put himself in medical danger. He’s far too clever for that.

 “They did find the van, though,” Amelia says, almost an afterthought, and Carmelita almost falls out of her seat, she turns so quickly.

 “ _What_ ?”  
 “Mhmm. Completely stripped bare, though. They found it out in the Canadian wilderness. They aren't sure whether Cooper got to it, or someone else.” Amelia pats her on the shoulder. “I’m heading to bed. Get some sleep, would you? I don’t want you backing me up unless you’re well rested.”

 Carmelita grunts. “Alright, alright.” She grinds her cigarette out on the table again, and gets up, leaving bitter smoke behind her.

 

-

 

The dream, again, of course. Cooper’s scent in her nose, his fingers sliding down her back, twirling on an empty, endless, warmly lit dance floor. His hand trails further, and then, just as she’s bucking her hips, begging him to touch her, _please_ -

 She wakes up, the alarm clock shrill and loud. Amelia is already dressed in tactical gear, pulling her hair back into a low ponytail. Carmelita sits up, combs through her own short hair with her claws.

 “Any movement?” she asks.

 “None,” Amelia says, grinning, well, _wolfishly_. “Lets arrest this sucker.”

 

-

 

All in all, it goes well. Amelia is an excellent partner to have, and the operation goes without a hitch. It’s nice to be back in the field, she can’t deny, and there’s nothing as satisfying as reading some criminal their rights.

 But as she’s leading the young bear to the car, barely old enough to drink, she finds her heart isn’t in it like it used to be.

 She closes the door, sends the car off. They do their due diligence, roping off the scene for forensics, and while she’s lost in the motion of it, Carmelita remembers the criminal’s file.

_Reggie Black, Italian, aged twenty three years old, male, six foot seven. Suspected to be working as forger and low level accountant for the Klaww Gang. Grew up in a lower middle class family, victim of domestic violence, left school early to try to make ends meet after abusive father died when he was sixteen._

 Carmelita finds herself running through this on loop, word for word, and is unsettled when she realises she’s focussing on the second half, that she feels _sorry_ for the perp, _identifies with him_.

 She thinks of Murray, and his offhand accounts of orphanage life, and frowns.

 “Let’s go,” Amelia says from behind her. “We’ve got a plane to catch.”

 And they do.

 Carmelita spends the entire time decisively not thinking about Reggie Black, and the future she’s delivered him into. (That he delivered _himself_ into, she tells herself, but it isn’t as straightforward as she remembers it).

 

-

 

When she gets home, shouldering the door in, relaxing when the familiar smell of her leather couch hits her nose, there’s a rose stuck between her balcony windows.

 She tenses, hand automatically going to her shock pistol, and drops her luggage, eyes sweeping the apartment. Keeping the lights off, she carefully closes the door, draws her weapon.

 Carmelita knows who left it, of course. Old habits die hard.

 But there’s no one there, her apartment is empty, exactly how she remembers leaving it. She goes to the window and holds the stem while she opens the windows, snatching the calling card that almost flutters away.

 The rose she doesn’t even bother to look at it, but the note, she stares at for so long it takes the start of rain to remind her to close the windows back up.

 It’s a different calling card to before; gone is the stylised racoon shape, and here is something simpler, something. More... _mature_ . A matte black business card with a silver lined print that she recognises to be the symbol on the cover of the _Thievius Raccoonus_ . The card is high quality, thick, faintly textured. She flips it over; written on the back, in an elegant scrawl of silver pen, says, simply, _I’m sorry._

 Rain patters against the windows, and she puts the card down.

 She’ll call it in tomorrow, she decides.

 She doesn’t.


	2. stirfry and gelato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carmelita goes to the gym, and explodes her stirfry.

She comes home from gym, sweating and sore and low key annoyed. Throws the keys on the little dish she keeps by the entrance, dumps her bag down and closes her eyes.

 It’s a Saturday night, and what is Carmelita up to? Nothing, of course, so she takes out a frozen meal and sticks it in the microwave. While it defrosts, she putters around the kitchen, washes some dishes she forgot to do, straightens up the cushions on the sofa. She goes to the fridge to get some water, and exhales heavily through her mouth.

 Empty.  _ That’s _ what she was meant to do today.

 She closes the fridge, and there’s a  _ splat _ in the microwave that startles her, has her hand flying to where her pistol would usually be. Muttering under her breath, she opens the microwave and is met by the sight of her stirfry sizzling over the innards of the microwave.

 Carmelita closes her eyes and counts to ten. And then twenty. And then thirty.

 Finally, eighty five seconds later, she opens them again and gets to work, cleaning the microwave out with a sponge several weeks past clean. Once she’s done, she goes back to the freezer. Which is also empty. 

 Her stomach rumbles.

 “Fucking,” she seethes quietly.

 So then she puts her gym clothes in the wash, and has a shower, trying to figure out what she wants to eat. She sits on the toilet, flicking through her phone as she towels her hair. A post from the tango club she used to frequent catches her eye.

 Free open air dancing at  _ Square Tino Rossi _ . She likes a Thai restaurant near there. And it’s been a while since she danced.

 Carmelita heaves a sigh, thinking about pad thai and that green tofu curry, and flicks over to the take away app.

 Another night, she tells herself. Her legs are sore, and she’s tired, and it’s not really a lie. She subscribes to the event in particular when she sees it’s a weekly thing. She’ll go another night.

 

-

 

She’s at the HQ later next week, minding her own damn business and doing her damn paperwork when she overhears the conversation between a couple of rookies.

 “-hear they found one of their hideouts?”

 “Shit, really? Was there any treasure?”

 “Naw, it had been completely cleared out.”

 “I heard they once burgled the  _ White House _ .”

 Carmelita glances at them at that. There’s only one  _ they _ that would warrant such a stupid rumour. 

 The two juniors are fresh out of the academy, their uniforms still starched and new. One of them catches her eye and they both look nervous, edge out of hearing, as if Carmelita’s  _ dangerous _ .

 Well, she muses. She  _ is _ quite dangerous. But she suspects the rumors still swirling around her and the raccoon aren’t doing her any favours. The thought makes her claws dig into her hands, and she turns her attention back to the paperwork, which lasts for all of three seconds.

 Of  _ course _ the safehouse would be empty, what do they expect? Bentley’s steps ahead of them,  _ miles _ , paralysed or not. They’d have to wake up much earlier in the morning to take him by surprise, as if the little turtle doesn’t have the entirety of Paris under surveillance at any given moment.

 Carmelita’s told her superiors everything she knows, that happened while she was… gone. The hearing had been a brutal, embarrassing affair, and she is only thankful they didn’t ask her much about what exactly happened in that helicopter back to Paris, besides the fact that the Gang had hijacked it, that Cooper had been ahead of her before they even landed on the beach after Neyla fell.

A voice uncannily male and suave says quietly,  _ That’s not quite true though, is it? _

 She remembers Cooper screaming in anguish as those pieces of the blimp hurtled through the dark, his friends trapped inside.

_ My brothers _ , he had sobbed out, a hoarseness in his voice like a crack in the sky, the earth, and she had sent that helicopter into a freefall before she even knew what she was doing.

 Carmelita squints at the paper. She’s accidentally spelt a name wrong, so she gets the white out tape out and runs over it carefully, and the mistake is gone, easily fixed, and she gets on with it.

 

-

 

The final low life criminal associated with the Klaww Gang is located in Venice, and Carmelita gets sent over with a team of investigators and forensic accountants to make enquiries, confirm for certain they have someone worth arresting. She’s ready to put this case to rest.

 Carmelita hasn’t been to Venice in a long time, and it’s quite lovely in the evening, a gentle breeze coming up through the canals. Half of the team decides to go out for pizza that night, but Carmelita declines their overtly reluctant offer and elects to wander through the streets. She hates their pity, hates how they treat her like career poison, these idiots who don’t know a thing about her besides Neyla’s bullshit, who don’t know she graduated top of her class from the academy and solved several cases in her first year that baffled the higher level inspectors. 

 She feels like her body is something that holds more weight than her prowess, that she’s the officer a criminal seduced, and it makes her  _ furious _ .

 She gets some  _ gelato _ and meanders, ends up leaning against a lovely bridge and watching people pass by. Her Italian is rudimentary, so she catches brief snippets- people coming home from work, going to dinner, lovers, friends, family.

 She’s in the middle of licking her scoop of lemon when she catches a suspiciously familiar shape on the rooftop- and then it’s gone.

 Carmelita has her gun, and that shape had been heading roughly in the direction of where they suspect Russo to be situated-

 Carmelita takes a deep breath, and finishes her  _ gelato _ . 

_ You can not afford to get in any more trouble _ , she tells herself calmly, and she heads back to the hotel in the other direction.

 

-

 

Three days later, they have enough evidence to take Russo down; they turn up with a warrant, bust down the doors, and find him tied up on the couch, his possum eyes bug wild.

 The detectives leading the team untie him, read him his rights, while the others check the rest of the apartment.

 Empty, of course; it’s Julie who finds the card, propped up against Russo’s open laptop- which is on, logged in, and open to a record of accounts and video footage that looks incriminating at first glance.

 It’s the exact same as she found in her window, that thick black card with the silver embossing of a raccoon's stylised head, but there’s nothing written on it this time, no elegant scrawl.

 They get to work combing the place, but Carmelita can feel their eyes on her back the entire time.


	3. irises

With the Klaww Gang case done and dusted, Carmelita is just… any other cop. Granted, she still gets those side eye looks, is still struggling back up the ladder, but now she’s working normal cases; drug smuggling, human trafficking. They’re all sad and tedious and horrible, and it’s as she sits going over case files for missing children that she realises she doesn’t love her job any more.  
The thought has her trembling, has her going to sit outside the office and drinking coffee for almost an hour. When did this happen?  
What does she do now?  
It haunts her over the next couple of weeks, has her staring at case files blankly. She’s been back at Interpol for four months, but it feels like four years, and that’s when that persistent HR rep emails her again.  
Carmelita, the hippo writes says, Just checking up on you to see how you’re adjusting. Please let me know if you need any assistance.  
She’s deleted several of these emails now, but she finds herself reading and rereading it, and then before she knows what she’s doing, she’s typing a reply.

-

The psychologist’s office is bigger, nicer, than she expected, tastefully modern with plants in pretty pots. The psychologist herself is an English born lynx who welcomes her warmly and shows Carmelita to a squashy, comfortable looking armchair.  
“I thought I would be laying down,” Carmelita says.  
“If you feel like it, go for it,” the lynx says. Her name is Sabra, and she has dark markings around her eyes. They both settle into their seats, Carmelita markedly more uneasy, and there’s a brief period of silence as Sabra takes out a notepad.  
“So,” Sabra smiles. “How can I help you?”  
Carmelita looks away, her hands fisting.   
Sabra nods when Carmelita doesn’t say anything. “Would you like some tea?”  
“Uh,” Carmelita says. “Okay.”  
Sabra gets up and fetches some mugs, takes out some tea bags. “Chamomile okay?”  
“Sure.”  
The steam of it fills the room, warm and relaxing, and Carmelita feels a little better once the warm mug is in her paws.  
“Why don’t you tell me about yourself,” Sabra says gently. The notebook sits on the table.  
“I’m an Inspector at Interpol,” Carmelita begins, and then grunts. “Junior Detective, I mean.”  
“What do you like to do in your spare time?”  
“I used to dance,” Carmelita says, sipping from her tea. Sabra’s eyes light up.   
“What style? My girlfriend’s a salsa dancer,” she says.  
“Tango. But I haven’t gone for a while.”  
Sabra nods sympathetically. “It’s hard to find time.” She nods at the file she’s taken out, a thick file with Carmelita’s name on it. “And it looks like you’ve been even more busy than the usual police officer.”  
Carmelita’s mouth quirks. “I suppose so.”  
Sabra sips from her tea. It’s all very underwhelming.  
“Aren’t you going to ask me about my parents, or something?” Carmelita says eventually.  
“Do you want to talk about them?” Sabra asks.  
“No,” Carmelita grunts immediately.  
Sabra shrugs. “Well, there you go.” She finishes her tea. “I’m here to talk, Carmelita. It’s up to you what we talk about.”  
Carmelita fidgets with her mug, suddenly wishing she was in uniform.   
“Why don’t we start with why you came here?” Sabra says gently.  
“I don’t like my job, anymore,” Carmelita says quietly, and it feels good to have that off her chest, shockingly so, like she’s confessed a sin.  
“Alright,” Sabra nods. “That’s a start. What happened?”  
“I don’t know,” she says. “I’ve always loved this job, and I was so happy when I came back to Interpol after the whole Klaww Gang debacle…”  
“Ah, yes,” Sabra says, flicking through the file. “You were really put through the wringer with that one.”  
And then, to Carmelita’s horror, at that casual sympathy, her eyes start tearing up.  
Sabra passes her some tissues, but says nothing, which somehow, bizarrely, makes Carmelita feel better. Carmelita wipes her eyes.  
“I’m fine,” she says gruffly.  
“Well,” Sabra says in that gentle tone. “You don’t have to be. It sounds like you had a pretty rough year.”  
Carmelita thinks of sausages roasting over a fire, of fishing- hesitantly, of Cooper’s warm laughter.  
“It wasn’t that bad,” she ventures. “Not all the time.”  
“When?” Sabra asks.  
Carmelita shrugs, unwilling to go further. Sabra may be a psychologist bound by confidentiality laws, but she’s still one that Interpol has recommended.  
“Okay,” Sabra says when it becomes obvious Carmelita isn’t going to say anything. “Well, why don’t you tell me about some of the bad parts?”

-

She comes out of the office feeling a little better, less sluggish. Sabra waves her goodbye after they make another appointment for a fortnight’s time.  
Try and do one thing that makes you happy, Sabra had suggested as they finished up. Just one.   
Which sounds like hippie bullshit, but Carmelita can’t see the harm. Two days later as she drives home from work, she sees a florist full of color and pulls over, goes and buys some deep blue irises.  
“Who are they for?” the sales assistant asks.  
“Me,” Carmelita says, and a smile spreads on her face of its own accord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad people are enjoying these little drabbles! I'm gonna try and update weekly for a bit, i'm not too sure how long this series will be but i'll know when it's finished, if that makes sense? and sly's notes will start happening again soon, i promise


	4. two to tango

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> carmelita finally goes dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wahey almost there...... the Boy is almost back on the scene...
> 
> for those with sharp memories, Carmelita mentions her Norwegian dancing partner, Arvid, at the end of (un)predictable! Thanks again for the lovely comments, they really perk up my day!  
> **also, Carmelita is Not At All out of the mental health issues yet, but she's having a good day today

She’s completely forgotten about Cooper’s calling card; it sits under a pile of books on her desk at home, safely hidden out of sight and out of mind. It stays like this for a month or two, until Carmelita decides to clean up her apartment after a particularly productive therapy session. She has some upbeat blues playing, the windows open and the sun shining in as she hums to herself, dancing around and dusting the furniture, hanging up the clothes she haphazardly threw over her chair last week.

 She comes to her desk and picks up these books, slotting them back in their shelves, and as she turns back to the desk, it’s right there, painfully  _ in _ sight, and  _ in _ mind.

 But she’s a little bit better, this week, a little bit stronger. So she picks the card up and looks at it.

 She hasn’t heard much about them, recently. They must be laying very low. She hopes Bentley is okay. And Murray, too.

 And Cooper, she supposes. 

 Carmelita tries not to think about Cooper very much. It brings up too  _ much _ , feelings she doesn’t understand, feelings she doesn’t  _ want _ to try to understand.

 His handwriting is nice, she thinks idly. Funny, but he always  _ has _ had some measure of class about him. And then she’s thinking about that  _ dance _ again, and-

 She hasn’t danced since that night, Carmelita realises, and with a startling clarity of thought, realises if she ever wants to get past that night, she needs to dance again, with someone  _ else. _

 Carmelita takes out her phone, scrolls through her contacts, and sends a message.

 Arvid replies almost immediately:  _ Carmy, long time no see! I thought you dropped off the face of the earth! _

__ Well, Carmelita thinks, he isn’t wrong. 

_ Sorry, _ she replies.  _ Work has been a real clusterfuck. Are you still in Paris _ ?

_ Yes! We’ve moved to Clichy, though. Are you still dancing? _

__ Thank god, she thinks, he’s right on her level as always.  _ No. But I was hoping you could help me get back into it? _

_  Of course! _ Arvid replies, and she’s filled with gratitude. They arrange to go to dinner and to the next tango social dance nearby. Carmelita puts down her phone with a renewed sense of purpose.

__ She still doesn’t throw away the raccoon’s calling card, though.

 

_ - _

 

When Arvid and her go to have dinner, she’s shocked at how easily they slip back into their friendship. She walks into the restaurant tense and ready to fend off questions about where she’s been, but he doesn’t ask her.

__ Instead, he fills her in on how he’s been; that he’s a lead programmer now at a start-up in northern Paris,  __ that he broke up with Samuel last year and is happily single. His tail whips around in excitement, and she’s filled with fondness at him.

 He asks her gently about work. He’s seen the headlines, of course, but he skips around them, lets her fill in what gaps she wants to. Arvid knows a very little bit about her tumultuous history with Cooper, but he doesn’t mention him once. For this, Carmelita is very grateful.

 She talks, hesitantly, about how troubles at work, but as the night goes on and the bottle of wine steadily grows empty, these troubles don’t seem quite so bad; they bundle into a taxi and head out to dance.

 It’s been a long time since she’s been to this particular dance hall. Neither of them recognise half the people there, but that’s to Carmelita’s preference. She’s so used to being a subject of notoriety at work; it’s nice to be faceless, for once.

 Arvid is a little rusty, just like her, and the bottle of wine doesn’t help. But they swirl about the floor and she’s having  _ fun _ , when did she last have  _ fun _ ? Why did she stop dancing in the first place?

 They break for some water, and almost immediately Carmelita is ambushed with dance requests from other leads. It’s flattering and even as she goes to refuse, she finds herself accepting instead. None of them are as easy or good as Arvid is, but they all have different quirks and a few of them do some slick moves that surprise her, make her laugh, and she’s actually sad to go home, for once.

 

-

 

 Carmelita wakes up the next morning with aching feet, but she goes into work with a lighter heart. The usual lingering look she gets from several of the senior officers doesn’t bother her as much; she makes a good amount of progress on the paperwork stack she’s been avoiding; and she actually solves a case that’s been eluding the team she was assigned to, which earns her some praise from her task force leader. 

 All in all, it’s a tolerable day, and she goes home actually feeling okay, not feeling like she hasn’t wasted her day.

 As she puts her keys on her desk, she looks at the card again, picks it up.

 Those toiling emotions are still there, but that’s okay, she decides, putting it back down. 

 After all- Cooper may be laying low, but there’s one thing she knows for certain about him; he always rears his head up just when Interpol are about to give up. 

 And maybe, for once, she’ll be  _ ready _ .


	5. a long letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carmelita writes a very long letter.

When she comes home a week after going to dance with Arvid, there’s a new calling card left for her.

 Carmelita isn’t ready, and she’s a fool to think she ever was.

 It’s stuck between her balcony doors once again, a miracle it’s still in one piece after the storm this afternoon, frankly, but that’s an idle thought that is swept aside by the feeling of her heart clenching.

 Her sessions with Sabra have been helping her, but she’s still yet to talk about Cooper and their complicated relationship. He’s a figure Sabra will occasionally reference, offering Carmelita the opportunity to talk about him, but she always skips right over those questions like a scratchy record player. 

 She takes the card from between the doors. There’s more than one word this time, but not too many more.

_ Le Jules Verne, October 12th, 19:00. _

 And then, on the other side:

_ Please. _

 

_ - _

 

She comes into Sabra’s office for her next appointment and the moment Sabra asks her how she’s been,  her hand hovers over the pocket where the card sits.

 Carmelita debated bringing the card in. It’s potential evidence against her, and while she is struggling with work, she doesn’t need a fresh round of rumors in the mix, doesn’t need suspicious glances.

 Carmelita decides to compromise.

 “Someone I know got in contact with me last week,” she says slowly. 

 Sabra, who is used to the bare minimum of information that Carmelita likes to share, simply nods and waits.

 “I have a complicated relationship with him. And he wants to go out for dinner.”

 “Was he a friend? A boyfriend?” 

 Carmelita’s mouth quirks. “I don’t know what he is.”

 Sabra interlaces her hands on her crossed knees. “Well, do  _ you _ want to see him?”

 “I… don’t know.”

 “Why?” Sabra says calmly. 

 Carmelita doesn’t have an answer to that, so Sabra leans forward.

 “Did this man emotionally, physically, or sexually abuse you?” she asks.

 Carmelita shakes her head.

 “Has he wronged you in another way?”

 Carmelita nods her head.

 “Okay. How has he wronged you?”

 “I don’t want to talk about it,” Carmelita says.

 Sabra nods. “Well, then I’m limited in what I can say. I’m here to help  _ you _ , not  _ him _ , and all I can say is that it sounds like you are avoiding thinking about your relationship with him.  _ That’s _ what’s stopping you from making a decision either way.”

 She’s not wrong, so Carmelita can’t say much to that.

 “Why don’t you play it by ear?” Sabra suggests. “See how you feel on the day, and in the meantime, maybe… write him a letter.”

 “A  _ letter _ ?” Carmelita says. “Really?”

 Sabra laughs. “I know, it’s a cliche psychology tool. But just give it a go, alright?”

 “Alright,” Carmelita says reluctantly.

 “Now, besides this person contacting you, how have you been?”

 Carmelita smiles. “I went dancing.”

 

-

 

It takes her a couple of days to get to the letter, but on Sunday morning, she forcibly sits at her desk and takes out a sheet of paper, a well used pen.

 Carmelita hasn’t written a letter for a very long time, and it feels novel, archaic. 

Should she began with  _ dear _ , or  _ to _ ? It doesn’t matter, of course, she’s not actually  _ sending _ it.

_ Cooper _ , she simply writes instead.

 There, first part done. Except now she’s stumped. How to go from here? How to talk about half a decade of split second interactions that formed the person she is today? How to talk about those lingering moments on the run?

 How to talk about that heated kiss in the helicopter?

 But Sabra has been impressing on her the importance of  _ trying _ , and being okay with failing, so she just… writes.

_ When I met you, _ she writes slowly,  _ I thought I was one of the best detectives in Interpol. And it seemed like you were determined to prove me wrong. _

 She writes for two hours. The letter is over fifteen pages long, and when she stops, it comes as a surprise to see just how much there was, blocked up in her. That baggage is still there, but it feels a little lighter, a little cleaner. Carmelita goes and makes a cup of tea, sits out on the balcony and feels the cold air on her face.

 Once she finishes drinking her tea, she comes back inside and slowly, methodically, tears up each page of paper and puts it at the bottom of the bin.

 And then she orders a pizza.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alskdjdjd so I just realised I haven't actually explained this fic's title! It comes from a song of the same name by Rufus Wainright, and I really recommend giving it a listen.
> 
> In the meanwhile, thanks as always for the comments and kudos etc etc, next chapter.... we go out for dinner!!!!! 
> 
> (whether it goes well is another story lmfao)


	6. pumping iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carmelita lays in bed, and pumps some iron, or;
> 
> Old habits die hard, and she's never been one for forgiveness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its ya boy!!!!!

October 12th comes quicker than it has any right to. It’s a Saturday, and she wakes up and stares at the ceiling for an hour, mulling.

 She doesn’t really know what to do. The letter made her feel a little better, but it doesn’t remove her from this situation. Going to meet with Cooper at this restaurant is a risk. An emotional risk, a huge one. And, of course, a risk to her career, she supposes. It doesn’t seem as important as it once was.

  She rolls over and stares at the window. Besides, what would she  _ wear _ ?

 (She’d wear the clingy red dress with the slit up the side, and hates that she is mentally picking out shoes to match.)

Eventually though, nature calls, so she gets up and performs her daily ablutions. Maybe a trip to the gym will make her feel better, so she pulls on her leggings and jumper and heads out.

 Carmelita has always enjoyed exercise. She sticks her earphones in, and loses herself in the repetitive motion of it, of her muscles burning and her heart pounding. She’s always been a doer, rather than a thinker, even as a little cub. It’s a meditation, almost; she rows six kilometres on the stationary rower and then heads to the weights section.

 Some of the regulars who she often passes give her a nod hello, and she returns it, picks out her weights and slots them onto the bar. Nothing too heavy, she decides, sticking with sixty kilograms to warm up her back for a deadlift.

 When she first started training, she was a scrappy thing, borne of years on living on food stamps and stolen sleep in the little hours. Carmelita’s come a long way since then, those twig arms turning to pistons, that lank fur thick and bright. 

 It also curbs that craving, that dark thing in her she inherited from her mother. Smothers it gently, leaves her feeling better. Stronger. 

 She takes off some of the weights and warms up her biceps now, grunting with the motion, catches sight of herself in the mirror; lean, muscles bulging, hair plastered to her fur, sweat running down her chest.

 Carmelita looks  _ powerful _ , and she revels in that feeling long after she leaves the gym, letting it carry her back to her apartment. It pushes her through long enough that after she showers that afternoon and does her hair, she’s so caught up in the momentum of it all she finds herself putting her makeup on.

 Well, she guesses. She’s all made up now, and she might as well get a free dinner out of it.

 But she decides to go with an outfit that won’t draw attention like that red dress; she pulls on a thin turtleneck jumper and a high waisted, tight skirt that stops just above her ankles. Carmelita loves a pair of heels, but she settles for practical heeled boots.  The jumper makes her arm muscles look strong and the skirt makes her waist look cute and it’s practical but still classy enough that she doesn’t feel self-conscious about going to a nice restaurant.

 And if worst comes to worst, she can still chase Cooper down in these shoes.

 

-

 

The restaurant is as stunning as she remembers, and she waits outside under the little verandah they have set up. It’s raining, and as nervous as she is, the scene comforts her. Rainy Paris is a place she knows well. She’s intimately aware of those dark corners, those wet alleyways, places she’s frequented as a cop, as a teenager. The rain drowns it all out and she closes her eyes, enjoying the noise.

 Someone clears their throat in front of her. She opens her eyes; there he is, in a thick coat and tight chinos, a button down shirt.

 He looks skinnier than she remembers, that fur longer, especially around the jaw. And handsome, as handsome as he was when he first stole the limelight from her all those years ago, those brown eyes rich and dark. His tail is coiled around his leg like he’s afraid of her.

 She wants to kiss him. She wants to slap him. 

 Carmelita settles for standing very still.

 “I thought you wouldn’t come,” Cooper says, and the relief in his eyes undoes her a little.

 “Well,” she says, her voice rough. “It’s not like I have much else to do.”

 “Shall we?” he says and holds the door open for her. They enter the warmth of the restaurant and leave that familiar, rainy Paris behind.

 The waiter seats them at the far back of the room in low lighting, near the fire. Cooper orders a glass of cabernet sauvignon for both of them, and when the waiter comes back with their glasses, she takes it with considerable relief.

 “How have you been?” she asks after some silence, and wants to scream at the banality of this. Where is her fire? Her  _ anger _ ? Her righteously deserved wrath?

 If he’s surprised by her cordiality, he doesn’t show it. “I’ve been well. Keeping my head down. Catching up on some sleep.”

 “How’s Bentley?” she asks next, dreading the answer, and Cooper smiles.

 “Really well, actually,” he says, and grins. “He’s got this crazy tricked out electric wheelchair. He attached  _ rockets _ to it this morning.  _ Rockets _ .”

 A smile on her face despite herself. “I’m glad he’s doing well,” she says, and is surprised by how much she  _ means _ it.

 “Carmelita,” he says. He looks away, and then drags his gaze back up to her. “I’m sorry. For everything”

 And there it is, that punch in the chest.

 “You already apologised,” she says quietly. “I got your note.”

 “No,” he says. “It was a bandaid, not the apology you deserve.”

 She’s silent for a second, and her words come to her slowly. “Did you plan on that? On… on kissing me before you left?”

 He stares at her, as if he isn’t sure whether to be cautious or amused. “Carmelita,” he says slowly. “You kissed me first.”

 The color rushes to her cheeks. He’s not wrong. “Perhaps,” she says evasively.

 “And no,” he says gently. “Bentley and Murray hacked the helicopter without my knowing. I had accepted I was going to jail, Carmelita. Whether I stayed there for long,” he admits, “was another matter.”

 But Carmelita, despite her career doubts, is a cop through and through, and she sees how Cooper winces so slightly at Murray’s name.

 “How  _ is _ Murray?” she asks, a hunch in her gut, and Cooper looks away.

 

 Cooper looks away, and she sees that shame on his face now, a look that has her worried.

 “Cooper,” she says. “What happened to Murray?”

 “Murray left,” he says, and Carmelita’s heart drops into her stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey i guess we're touching on sly 3? im as surprised as you are lmao lets see how this goes


	7. cobblestone and phone numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cooper reveals some things about himself Carmelita doesn't expect.

“What do you mean, he  _ left _ ?”

 The restaurant isn’t that loud, sprinkled with quiet chatting and the roaring of the fire but maybe she still misheard him? 

“Several weeks ago,” Cooper says, and she can hear that pain in his voice, the same pain that had cracked through, screaming and coarse, as he watched them fall to the ocean amongst flaming debris. “He told us he was a burden to the team, and walked out.” Cooper pauses, and she watches how his fingers interlace like steel bands, straining the knuckles. “He left the  _ van _ , Carmelita.”

 Carmelita knows how much Murray loved that van. He had told her one of those days on the run, told her the years of history, each screw twisted into metal a story, a labor of love.

 “Where’d he go?”

 Cooper shakes his head. “We don’t know. He sent us a letter to let us know he was okay, but that was three weeks ago, and the postmark is from Singapore. He could be anywhere by now.”

 This rankles on her, the thought of Murray wandering, alone and lonely. “Well, get Bentley to search for him.”

 “It’s not that simple,” Cooper tells her. 

 “Why  _ not _ ?” she snaps at him, tail tightening around the leg of her chair.

 “Because he doesn’t  _ want _ to be found. Because he blames himself, Carmelita,” he says. “He thinks it’s his fault that Bentley is a paraplegic.

 “He told me, when he was holding up Clock-La’s jaw, that he faltered, just for a moment. Long enough for his fingers to slip, and for it to fall on Bentley’s spine.”

 “So what if he did?” Carmelita argues. “He was exhausted. We were  _ all _ exhausted. It’s no more his fault than mine.”

 Cooper wears a smile devoid of humor. “When the Contessa had you,” he said, “Were you fed spice?”

 Carmelita blinks, thrown off, and then she realises what he means; she’s read the files, after all. 

“The Contessa hypnotised him?” She asks.

 Cooper nods. 

  Carmelita is silent, considering this; considering what she read of the Contessa, of the horrific abuse the detectives on that scene had unearthed, anorexic criminals, schizophrenic criminals, PTSD riddled criminals, criminals with gashes up their thighs and arms and dry-blooded shards of tiles in their pillow cases, all of them with strange chemicals in their blood, urine and stool.

_ Victims _ , some part of her corrects.

 “Bentley thinks the spices hadn’t cleared out of Murray’s system entirely, still,” Cooper says, looking at the roaring fireplace. “Leaving him still susceptible. And Neyla managed, for a brief moment, to hypnotise him just enough to relax his fingers.”

 Neyla. Carmelita will never have the words to describe her distaste for the younger woman, but now that distaste becomes a deep, thick, slimy ball of horror and disgust in her gullet.

 “Bentley tried to tell him,” Cooper continues. “But he didn’t listen. And he left.”

 They sit in silence, and Carmelita tries to comprehend how this must feel. She can’t, of course, and almost reaches across to put her hand over his.

 “Maybe he just needs time,” Carmelita tries instead. “Time to clear his head.”

 Cooper looks back at her. “I hope so, Carmelita. I really hope so. But last year… Carmelita,” he says, leaning forward a little. Those dark eyes look tired, intense. “I watched my parents die, in front of me, when I was four years old,” he tells her so quietly. “Last year was  _ almost _ as bad as that one was.”

 She doesn’t know what to say to that. She’s read Cooper’s file, all four hundred pages of it, but that wasn’t in it. 

 Cooper huffs out a laugh, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, flagging the waiter. “I didn’t mean to make this a somber evening. Let’s order dinner. My treat,” he adds, flashing that old smile at her, but it’s a little older, a little… less, than she remembers. But somehow, a little more, too.

 

-

 

Standing outside the restaurant, Paris is quiet, the staff stacking chairs behind them as they stand beneath the little overhang that saves them from the rain.

 Cooper shrugs his thick jacket back on, runs a paw through his hair. They both look out at the way the lights muddle in the water sheeting down, the cobblestones reflecting the street lights.

 “Shall I call you a taxi?” he asks her. Carmelita shakes her head, taking a small umbrella out from her bag.

 “It’ll be nice to walk,” she says, and then, before she can stop herself, it blurts out: “Would you care to join me?”

 If Cooper is surprised, he doesn’t show it. “It would be my pleasure,” he says simply. She almost expects him to loop her arm through his, but he doesn’t; merely steps under the umbrella as she unfurls it, and they make their way down the street. They’re halfway back to hers when she notices his cologne, that gentle, warm cinnamon smell, and her traitorous brain remembers again that night in the helicopter, those fingers running down her skin, sinking into the swell of her.

 “I had a lovely night,” he tells her, soft and gentle. “Thank you again for coming.”

 She shrugs, keeping her eyes ahead. “Not like I had much else to do. I think the Thai delivery boy knows my order off by heart at this point.”

 Cooper laughs, the sound a little like a rusty tap being turned, as if he hasn’t laughed in a while. 

 “What  _ is _ your order?” he asks her.

 She shrugs. “Two fish patties, green curry with coconut rice, and a small bottle of soda water.”

 “Twinsies,” he says, and she can see him smiling lopsidedly. “I prefer spring rolls to fish patties, though.” he pauses, then, and hesitantly: “Perhaps you could show me your favourite Thai place, sometime?”

 She stops and he almost walks out of the safety of the umbrella, into the rain.

 “Cooper,” she begins, not quite sure what she’s going to say next. He looks at her, unmoving.

 “Why…” she tries, hoping the words will come to her. She’s so used to Cooper in life and death settings, in angry settings and running quick settings, places and atmospheres heavy with urgency of some kind, of tension. But here he is, standing next to her in the rain, hunched over a little bit to fit under the brim of her umbrella, his button down shirt a little crinkled and his brogues wet from the rain, those clever, nimble fingers shoved deep in his pockets. The air rushes out of her chest. There’s those conflictions again, the desire to leave him with a fist-bruised jaw; the desire to leave him with kiss-bruised lips.

 “Why,” she tries again, “Did you want to meet me?”   
 He doesn’t answer immediately. She adds, with more steel in her voice and her backbone, “I’ll know if you’re lying.”

 “Let’s keep walking,” he suggests, and he says it so reasonably she indulges him while he looks at the street ahead of them like he’s assembling something in his mind. An excuse, or an explanation? 

 “At first,” he says eventually, a block from her apartment, “I just wanted to… apologise to you. In person,” he adds, glancing at her. “For the helicopter… incident-” he cuts himself off, and shakes his head. “No,” Cooper says, decisively. “Not for all of it. Just for leaving you there.”

 He looks at her very meaningfully and she can feel her cheekbones heating beneath her fur at it, at the implications of that look.

 “And then it was just… I wanted to see you,” he says, a little quieter. “I missed those days we spent together, on the run.” Cooper quirks his mouth. “I know you hated it-”

 “I didn’t hate it,” Carmelita says, quite automatically. But it’s a shameful truth, one she amends. “Well, I hated being on the run,” she admits. “But…”

 But she didn’t hate spending time with them, spending time with  _ him _ .

 And perhaps, her apartment feels a little empty sometimes, too.

“Carmelita, I- don’t you ever wonder if we could have been different?” Those handsome eyes, earnest and a little sad. “If we had met each other earlier? Like normal people?”

 She refuses to indulge herself with that scenario, and instead she says, “You’re a criminal, Sly. We could only have ever met how we did.”

 “A  _ master _ criminal,” he tells her. “Carmelita, do you know what we do with most of our stealings?”

 “Interpol would  _ love  _ to know,” she says, and this startles a laugh out of him.

 “Once we put a little into our daily account,” he tells her, “once we’ve paid whatever bills we owe and so on, and put enough into our emergency account and done any repairs, it goes into the orphanages. Every month. Thousands of dollars, to hundreds of orphanages.

 “Thieving is in my blood, my lineage,” Cooper says. “I got lucky. But not every underprivileged orphan is going to make friends, not every kid is going to somehow fall into the criminal underworld and land  _ safely _ . Bentley gets letters every now and then to a dummy account, from young adults who didn’t have to prostitute themselves because of the extra money we sent to their orphanages, money that meant they could stay there a little longer, a little safer, finish their education, maybe even go to university.

 “I’m not saying I’m not a criminal,” Cooper says. “But I’m not an asshole. You’ve read our file, Carmelita. We’ve only ever stolen from people who have more money than they know what to do with, people who would never even glance at a donation box, people who hurt other people and go to bed like it’s nothing.”

 Carmelita knows exactly the sort of people he’s talking about: 

 She’s seen them at crime scenes, privileged cows and mares, fussing over things that she would never have considered purchasing, so far out of her paycheck and concern they may as well be in outer space. 

  She’s seen them, pulled in for tax fraud for international companies, when they already earn millions.

  She’s seen them, billionaire businessmen, bribing off rape charges like she hasn’t just seen the sobbing victims in the interview rooms.

  “Anyway,” Cooper says, a little awkwardly, “Isn’t this your building?”

 Indeed it is, and she isn’t quite sure what to say. Cooper senses this, perhaps, and saves her the trouble.

 “I enjoyed seeing you,” he says. 

 “You too,” she says, and means it.

 “Here,” he says, pulling out that newer, sleeker calling card. He takes out a silver pen from his jacket and writes a number on the back of it. He flaps the card a little so the ink dries, and passes it to her.

 “If you ever want to reach me,” he say, a little shyly, and she takes the card from him.

 They look at each other, and she wonders if he’s going to kiss her.

 Maybe he’s thinking the same thing, because a peculiar expression is on his face, and then he clears his throat, steps back. She’s disappointed, despite herself, but relieved, as well; she can only handle so much in one evening.

 “I guess I’ll be seeing you?” Cooper says, and it’s a hopeful lilt to his tone that makes her smile.

 “Goodbye, Cooper,” she says, but that smile makes the words a little softer than it should be.

 “Goodbye, Carmelita,” he says, smiling too. 

 She watches him walk back down the street, hunching his shoulders against the rain; she hears him whistling, some old bluesy tune, and something pangs in her chest.

 Carmelita goes inside and shakes her umbrella, walks up her stairs. She comes to her apartment door and when she steps inside, she takes that card out, and places it, hesitantly, delicately, on her desk, where she can see it, the silver ink gently reflecting the street lights outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK FOR ALL THE LOVELY COMMENTS... MWAH....
> 
> (seriously tho thank u)


	8. time for a little change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carmelita has a realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short and sweet so we can get to that Sweet Good Shit we're all here for.

The card sits on her desk for a week, soaking into the background of her apartment until it’s a given, as natural as the curtains in front of her window, as sensible as the microwave on her kitchen bench. It actually kind of matches the interior, actually; Carmelita’s always liked order, things in the right places, and as such her apartment is modern, white and black, easy to clean with lots of storage. Soon it seems like it’s right for that card to be there.

 Work, however, is another story.

 She goes in the day after and is abruptly, terrifyingly, paranoid someone will have seen her out with Cooper, and she’s about to be arrested, pulled in for questioning. No one mentions anything, though, and after another week of her expecting every interaction to end with an interrogation, Carmelita starts doing some researching.

 On her lunch break, she takes her laptop outside to a secluded little balcony that never seems to get used, and she logs into the Interpol’s database, opens up the incredibly large file for the giant, interconnected mess that was the Klaww Gang.

 Now she’s reading through it, so much makes more sense, as hindsight often does. How did she not notice Neyla’s shockingly obvious deception? 

 She reads through the first few cases; Dimitri Lousteau, Rajan Basu. All quite straightforward.

 And then she comes to the file she’s been dreading: the Contessa.

 

-

 

“Did you end up getting dinner with him?” Sabra asks.

 Carmelita fiddles with her hands. “Yes,” she admits.

 “How was it?”

 God, this is becoming a complex lie.

 “Surprisingly… okay.” She clears her throat. “He apologised for some… things he did a while ago. Which I appreciated. And we talked a little bit about some problems with his brother. And then we just… talked.”

 “Do you think you’ll see him again?”

 “He wants to. He gave me his number.” Carmelita shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m still thinking about it.”

 Sabra smiles at her. “That’s great, Carmelita. It’s great to see you confronting things like this. How did you feel about the dinner?”

 “I had a good time,” she says. 

 “And how is work?”

 Carmelita shifts on her seat. She’s halfway through reading the Contessa’s file, and… it’s horrible. Awful. 

 “Tell me,” Sabra says gently.

 “I’ve been rereading the case files. About last year. I’m trying to understand everything, a bit more.” Carmelita pauses. “Did you read everything about the Contessa, when you read my file?”

 Sabra smooths her the legs of her pants. “Yes.”

 “I’ve never-” Carmelita takes a breath. “I’ve dealt with corruption before, but never within Interpol. I still don’t understand how she got away with it. And on the file, the listing of things she did-”

Sabra passes her the box of tissues. Carmelita is mortified to find she’s crying.

They wait in silence as Carmelita wipes her eyes roughly.

“I actually looked up to her, as well,” Carmelita says angrily. “I would hear about all the fantastic rehabilitation she was doing, fixing these people who were wrong, and broken, but she was just as wrong and broken! And some of the people in there- they weren’t even criminals, just-”

 Oh, she thinks, and Cooper is in her head now.

 “Just…?”

 “People who led unprivileged lives,” she says quietly. “Like me.”

 And what can you do, faced with this knowledge? It feels like the world shifts entirely on its axis, and leaves her behind.

 “Carmelita,” Sabra says very quietly. Carmelita looks up at her. “I’ve seen this a lot, with other cops who come in after traumatic experiences. When they realises the justice system isn’t perfect, and that in some cases, they’ve contributed to it… It’s crushing,” she says. “But, and as little as I like to get very personal in this sort of moment, I have to remind you that you are a good person. I’ve seen your record. You’ve demolished child pornography rings, captured serial killers and rapists. You’ve done a lot of good. Try to keep this in mind, okay?”

 Carmelita nods. 

 Sabra leans in a little. “It’s cops like you that hold the system up,” she says. “Every Contessa has a Carmelita.”

 Carmelita nods again, taking a deep breath.

 “It honestly sounds to me, though,” Sabra says, “Like you need a holiday.”

 “I’m fine,” Carmelita protests. But the idea has a pull she can’t help consider.

 “I don’t disagree,” Sabra says. “But you’re experiencing a lot of emotional upheaval, and a lot of personal development, and also recovering from a traumatic experience. Taking time off work would give you the chance to properly process everything.”

 “What would I even do?” Carmelita asks.

 Sabra smiles. “Whatever you want, Carmelita. Whatever you want.”

 

-

 

Her leave is approved a week later, and she’s suddenly struck by the relief; by the unfamiliar sensation of excitement. She comes home, deep cleans everything, goes to the gym, and then orders a pizza at ten at night, and starts watching an old sitcom she used to love when she was just barely twenty years old.

 And then it really hits her; a month off, to enjoy herself, to dance and eat and sleep in. It’s overwhelming, fantastic, and she eats all the pizza and falls asleep on the couch, feeling a little like a graduated student once more; the world big, and open, and full of possibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for the love guys!


	9. muffins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carmelita gets back into her hobbies.

The first couple of days are like she’s playing catch up. She plans to go to the gym, plans to go out and dance, but she sleeps in and then watches a rom-com and then she sleeps. Again.

 There’s a lot of sleeping. She didn’t realise she was so  _ tired _ . Like her body stored every single jolt of electricity Drummond zapped into her, like her feet are still dragging through the streets of Prague, desperation and fury.

 So, she sleeps. A week passes before she realises it, and she wakes up on the ninth day feeling… good. Great, in fact.

 She goes to the gym, beats her usual five mile time, and then adds an extra five kilograms to her usual weight loads and burns and sweats and grins the entire time.

-

 

Then, she goes grocery shopping. Buys all the food she usually walks past, buys ingredients to bake and to make fresh pizza, just the way she likes it, and returns home feeling like a pirate, arms full of treasure.

 Carmelita used to enjoy cooking, before work and life got in the way. And she was pretty good at it, too; she used to make little meringues and arancini and lasagna and all sorts. But she found less and less time, and then eventually, she stopped buying fresh food and starting getting takeout. 

 She lays the ingredients for cake out on her counter, like she’s preparing for battle. Her lips quirk at the thought. Hah. Little sugar soldiers.

 Carmelita puts on some relaxing blues, and mixes a batter from memory, from instinct rather than measurement. A pinch of nutmeg, of salt. She hums along, hips swaying, folding the flour and eggs and apple chunks and it’s a little like she’s a teenager again, fresh out of school, discovering the glory of independent living.

 She pours the batter into a muffin tray, sprinkles some cinnamon and brown sugar over the top, arranges thinly sliced apple on top like a flour, and slides it in the oven.

 After she cleans up, she realises it’s two in the afternoon, the sun streaming through her window, and she just stands there for a bit with her eyes closed, her fur warm. The sun glints off silver ink of the card on her desk, and she stops, looks at it, at that handwriting, at the little dried water marks where rain has hit it. 

 She’s made, she thinks to herself, an awful lot of muffins. Twelve. That’s a lot of muffins. And she doesn’t like them anywhere near as much the next day. Carmelita takes out her phone, and picks up the card; enters the number in her phone with one hand. She saves the contact as “Ringtail”, and sends him a message:

_ I made too many muffins. Would you like some? _

__ The reply is almost instantaneous- unsurprising considering how it consists of a single word.

_ Yes. _

 

-

 

About half an hour later, her doorbell buzzes, and her intercom camera comes on. Cooper stands there in a jumper and jeans, and she presses the door button: it clicks, and a minute later, he’s knocking on her door.

 Cooper stands there in the door frame, looking at her apartment. She’s not sure how to describe it, but something is off about him. 

 “What are you doing?” she says gruffly. “Come in, you’re letting the warm air out.”

He steps through and closes the door behind her. “It’s nice. I like it.”

 “You’ve seen my apartment,” she reminds him. He gives her a crooked, embarrassed smile. 

 “Not during the day,” he corrects her. “And not without being invited in.”

 Carmelita doesn’t know what to say to that, so she just goes to the oven and takes out the muffins, warm and nicely toasted. She can hear Cooper sniffing the air, and he looks impressed when she sets them down in front of him after prying them from the pan.

 “These look amazing,” he says. “I didn’t know you baked.”

 “It’s been a while,” she admits. “Hopefully they don’t taste too bad.”

 Cooper reaches out and reflexively, she smacks his hand away. He laughs, and leans back.

 “Wait for them to cool down a little,” Carmelita says.

 He sits back on his stool, and now she realises what’s wrong; he isn’t lounging, that liquid grace, he’s sitting up right and careful like his chair could break beneath him. He looks uncomfortable, she thinks initially. No, that’s not right; she’s seen him like this when he’s running on wires, when he’s crouching up high. 

 Patient, careful, like he doesn’t want to disturb anything.

 “It’s a Wednesday,” Cooper says, and she blinks at him. “Why aren’t you at work?”

 She shrugs defensively. “I’m taking some time off.”

 “Okay,” Cooper says. “Follow up question. Are you about to reveal you have cancer, or some similarly life changing disease?”  

 Damn him, but she does laugh. “No.”

 “Is someone threatening you?”

 “No!”

 “I’m stumped,” he concedes with a grin. “Why the time off?”

 She shrugs, even more defensively. “My- I just felt like it.”

 “Well,” Cooper says carefully. “Thank you. For the muffins. Can I have one yet?”

 Carmelita rolls her eyes. “If you burn your tongue, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 

-

He eats half the muffins in a matter of minutes, of course. Carmelita puts two aside for herself, and after a moment, puts the other four in a paper bag.

 “For Bentley,” she says by way of explanation. 

 “He’ll appreciate that,” Cooper says, smiles at her, and slides off the stool. “I guess I better head off.”

 “Okay,” Carmelita says, and she’s actually  _ disappointed _ , he’s only been here for ten minutes. But that’s good. Less time for him to cause trouble. 

 Cooper looks like he’s about to say something, but then, wisely, thinks better of it.

 “Thank you for inviting me over,” he tells her, opening her door. “The muffins were excellent.”

 “You’re welcome,” she says. 

 e steps out, and then pops his head back in, looking a little nervous. “Would you want to get dinner, sometime? Again?”

 Carmelita shrugs, pretending to be busy drying the plate she had the muffins sat on. “Sure.”   
 “Right,” Cooper says, nodding. “Excellent. I’ll text you.”

 And then he closes the door, and Carmelita has a small little smile on her face that reflects back at her, a smile she tells herself is the result of her baking still being up to par. 

 (In her head, Cooper’s voice says  _ sure _ with a dry scoff, and she ignores it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u all for the lovely comments, as always!!! I'm in a great creative patch at the moment, so enjoy these regular updates while they last lol


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dinner date round 2.

Arvid whirls her and she laughs as they almost knock into another couple.

 “Oops,” he grins, and dips her as the song hits a crescendo.

 She’s trying to make this a weekly thing; they go out for a light supper and a few glasses of wine, and then dance until one of them has to sit down.

 Tonight is no different; she returns home aching, grinning, and as she pulls off her dancing shoes, her phone whistles.

_ RINGTAIL: would u still be interested in dinner this week? _

__ She sets her shoe down, picks up the phone. 

_ Time and place? _ She sends.

_ Tomorrow at 7pm, the little Italian place on Rue. _

__ She looks at the message for a bit. What does he  _ want _ from her? What does she want from  _ him _ ?

 Chalk and cheese, the two of them, and their chemistry aside… how can this end well?

 He mentioned he and Bentley had been laying low while they recuperate, and a part of her naively wonders if they’ll cut their losses; disappear into the humdrum of everyday life, a cold case for Interpol that will become legendary.

 He had said to her once he had considered giving his lifestyle up for her. And while she strongly disapproves of this life of his… she knows he loves it. Knows that for him that isn’t a thing he says lightly, something as easy as he makes it out to be.  

_ See you then _ , she replies.

 At the very least, she can see where this goes, right?

 

-

 

In the meantime, she’s taken to watching a sitcom based around a police precinct. It’s strange to find solace in something incorporating the very thing she’s escaping, but of course, the show - while well researched- leaves leeway for the episodic plots, for comedic intent, and so on. 

 Particularly of interest to her is the romantic subplot between two of the detectives, whose personalities clash so unreasonably that of course, they constantly skirt on the edge of will-they-won’t-they.

 She’s never seen an relationships between officers at the same building work in the long run, and Carmelita’s certainly never been fool enough to try one herself. It’s such a demanding job; though she lived and breathed it, there were always times when she came home, exhausted from the latest inhumane crime she was investigating, wanting nothing more than to think of anything else besides the files sitting on her desk.

 But then, she’s seen plenty of officers unable to hold a long term connection with a civilian, as well; working in Interpol has lead her into scenes of inhumanity, brutal crimes, things that a civilian will be hard pressed to understand on more than the most basic, distanced level. 

 In this episode she’s watching now, curled up on the couch with a mug of hot cocoa in her hands, the main plot fixes on the tension between the two detectives and how it distracts them from the series of breaking-and-enterings they’re investigating. Light hearted, but with an underlying emotion, and of course, any notion of their relationship is put aside for the next episode.

 Figures.

 

-

 

 As she gets ready for dinner with Cooper, she realises her hair is almost jaw length; in another six months, it will be as if the last year never happened at all.

 Carmelita supposes she should be more traumatised by what the Contessa and Drummond did to her. Perhaps the general shock of the situation cushioned her, and in combination with her training and high pain tolerance, she’s come out unscathed. Unlike poor Murray.

 She hopes he’s okay; hopes at dinner, Cooper will say,  _ he’s come back _ . The feeling isn’t as surprising as before, but still… unexpected. Murray is a criminal, just like Bentley and Cooper, and yet…

Catching sight of her clock snaps her back to reality, and she pulls on the pants and turtleneck she’s wearing tonight. The Italian restaurant Cooper has invited her to, while delicious, is a much more casual affair than where they went last time, much more full of bustle and cheer, and it’s with relief she slips into a comfortable pair of shoes; it’s forecasted to rain heavy tonight, so she’ll be driving, and she  _ hates _ driving in heels.

 

-

 

It’s almost impossible to find a park, but she gets lucky when someone pulls out right in front of the restaurant. Carmelita sends her thanks to the heavens, pulling the car in and going inside, out of the chill.

 She’s early, to her surprise, and Cooper has reserved a table under her name, so she sits, enjoying the warmth and the overall vibe, as she waits.

 Five minutes turns to ten, then fifteen, then thirty. She’s surprised, more than anything; Cooper knows the importance of a good schedule. Perhaps, she thinks bitterly, he’s out stealing something, and this rankles her; she’s just about to walk out the door when she bumps into him as he comes in, soaking wet and panting.

 “Carmelita!” he exclaims. “I’m so, so sorry, I was running an errand that went over time and the new phone Bentley gave me glitched out.”

 She purses her lips. An errand? What an interesting and  _ vague _ choice of words. But he looks like a drowned rat, and the relief in his face is genuine, so they sit back down and order after Cooper goes to the bathroom to ring out his socks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks as always for the lovely comments, and my apologies for the late update! last couple of weeks have been Very Busy, and I was also finishing off one of the longer fics I was writing, and am relieved it's done! 
> 
> full disclosure- i am running out of steam on this little fic series. i have an idea of where it will go and how it will end, but as i work on the other full length fic taking up my time, updates will likely be sparse here, though I do plan to tie this series up eventually.
> 
> thanks again!


	11. wine and flattery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sly and Carmelita have a heart to heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back, babey!!!!
> 
> updates r still gonna be very irregular, but was feeling Into it today... thanks for the lovely comments people have left in my absence!!! i hope u enjoy :)

Perhaps sensing how unimpressed Carmelita was by his lateness, Cooper is on his best behaviour; he apologises several more times, and orders an expensive bottle of wine.

 “Alright,” she says when he orders them a pricey fish dish, “I get it, Cooper, you can relax.”

 “Get what?” he asks in surprise.

 She motions at the bottle. “You were late. It happens.”

 “Oh,” Cooper says. “Well, I certainly  _ am _ sorry I was late. But I ordered all of this because it’s a special occasion.”

 She raises a brow. “It’s not your birthday, Cooper, so I assume your…  _ errand _ … was successful?”

 “It was only a little illegal, I assure you,” Cooper smiles, and she huffs a laugh despite herself. “No, the special occasion is that I’m having dinner,  _ again _ , with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

 Carmelita rolls her eyes at this but is unable to stop her smile.

 “Too much?” he says innocently, those brown eyes sparkling.

 “I’ll allow it,” she says graciously. 

 “Well, thank goodness for that,” Cooper murmurs, holding her gaze, and she feels her skin warm beneath her fur, and now she’s thinking about the helicopter again-

 “How’s Bentley?” she asks, determined not to let Cooper get too confident. 

 “Going good,” Cooper says, taking a sip of wine. “He’s getting a little cagey, actually. He’s out roaming the streets tonight.”

 At that, Carmelita frowns. “That’s foolhardy of him. Wouldn’t he stand out like a sore thumb?”

 Sly grins. “That’s exactly what I said. He was  _ not _ impressed. But Bentley’s a big boy and he also has four wheel drive tires on that chair, so I wasn’t exactly going to stand in his way and get run over.”

 The image makes her laugh aloud, and Cooper watches her with a soft, fond sort of expression.

 “But enough about Bentley’s rampage,” he says. “What have you been doing with all your new found time?”

 “Not very much,” Carmelita admits. “Watching television and cooking, mainly.”

 “More muffins?”

 “No, macarons.”

 “Ah, Carmelita, how you tease me,” he sighs. “Macarons? I thought you were a hard hitting Inspector with a heart of steel, not a woman after my heart.”

 Her mouth twists, then. “I’m not an Inspector, anymore.”

 Cooper stares at her. “What?”

 Carmelita shrugs carelessly. “They reinstated me as Junior Detective. Really, I was lucky to get back into the force at all. I can’t complain.”

 “That’s  _ shit _ ,” Cooper says loudly, and diners at the table behind him look in his direction. Gratified, but a little embarrassed, Carmelita shushes him.

 “That’s absolute shit,” Cooper continues a little more quietly. “I’ve read your file. Besides yours truly, you had an incredible success rate.”

 Carmelita thinks of that young bear she put away only a month or two ago. “Success is relative, I suppose,” she says, the wine perhaps undoing her tongue a little. Cooper looks a little confused, but he stays quiet, waiting for her to continue. His wine sits in his hand, forgotten as he waits for her to continue.

 “The justice system is not what I believed it to be,” Carmelita says very quietly, and shrugs again. “My success was perhaps, the result of overzealousness, and a lack of compassion.”

 At this, Cooper is visibly surprised, and frowns. “Okay, now I  _ know _ something’s wrong.”

 Carmelita takes a large mouthful of wine. 

 “I… I really don’t know what to say,” Cooper admits. 

 “I don’t need you to say anything,” she shrugs.

 “But- this is an essential part of your identity, and you’ve effectively just denounced it.”

 “I haven’t denounced it,” Carmelita says sharply. “I am just… disillusioned. I have been contributing to a system that was not as effective or as fair as I thought it was.”

 Sly stares at her, and she starts to wonder if she has something on her face.

 “What?” she says.

 “I’m… worried about you,” he says. “This is some serious shit you’re saying, Carmelita.”

 “Well, it’s some serious shit I’m talking about.”

 “I think you’re right,” Cooper says slowly. “The justice system is broken in many ways, and in some aspects, needs an overhaul. But you’ve done a lot more good than bad, Carmelita.”

 The comment does something unexpected; tears prick at her eyes, and she hides it by coughing. 

 “You’re a fine police officer, and even if it doesn’t seem like it right now, you can make changes, can’t you?” Cooper continues. 

 “Not big ones,” Carmelita says. “Not the ones that need to be made.”

 “Think of it like… the justice system is an old house,” Cooper offers. “When it was built, it was fantastic and had everything that was needed. But now, it’s been renovated and patched and the framework isn’t as sturdy as it was, and the wallpaper’s peeling. 

 “You can’t knock the house down and rebuild it from scratch,” Cooper says. “But you can still do a lot, right? You can rebuild the foundation, work from the bottom up.”

 “Stop it from crumbling,” Carmelita muses. “A practical approach, even if your metaphor was becoming a little laboured.”

 “If anyone can do it,” Cooper says softly, “It’s you.”

 “Ah, now I  _ know  _ you’re just flattering me,” Carmelita mutters. She hadn’t realised how closely they had both leant ino over the table; she can almost count the hairs on his face, see the strands of gold in his eyes, and she leans back, using the motion of refilling her glass as an excuse.

 “Flattery and truth can be the same thing,” Cooper tells her, and raises his glass to her with a smile.


	12. a kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They come too close for her comfort.

Carmelita is a master of persistence and restraint; her career was a testament to it, her body is a decade of self-control. Her temper may flare, and she has jumped to conclusions, but Carmelita can never let something go once she has it in her fangs. Her greatest strength and her greatest weakness, and now she can’t figure out which it is because all she can think about is that  _ damned night in the helicopter.   _

__ Cooper walks her to her car a few streets away, a short way, but a pleasant way, gentle conversations and comfortable silences, and again, as they come to her little hatchback, she wonders if he’s going to kiss her.

 He doesn’t, but he opens the car door for her and there’s a long, slow moment where he’s looking at her like he would like nothing better than to peel the clothes from her. 

 “Thank you for dinner, Cooper,” she says, trying to ignore the heat pooling in her.

 “It was my pleasure,” he murmurs. 

 (All she can think of is his teeth on her neck, the smell of sweat and soot, the taste of him.)

 She shouldn’t. She  _ can’t. _ But all the platitudes in the world can’t stop her from thinking how easy it would be to say,  _ come home with me _ . Carmelita wonders if he’s thinking the same thing. His eyes are hungry, and she swallows, a stalemate.

 “Cooper,” she begins. 

 “You never call me by my name,” he says softly, a wry smile. She hesitates.

 “Sly,” she says, and he looks away. He’s the one swallowing, now.

_ Come home with me _ , she wants to say.  _ Give up this life of yours, and let me make you honest, _ she wants to say. 

 “Yes, Carmelita?”

 “Sly,” she says again, and he leans to her, watching her eyes. She’s warring with herself, silent and desperate. 

 “Ah,” he says, and it sounds sad, but fond. He moves closer, so very slowly, and her eyes flutter shut as he presses a kiss to her cheek. He lingers a little longer than he should, but not as long as she needs, and then he smiles at her.

 “Drive safe,” Sly tells her, and gently closes her door. She starts the car with trembling fingers, heat pooling in the seam of her, and when she glances in the rear view mirror as she drives away, he’s still watching her.

 When she gets home, she’s jittery, jubilant, spends much longer in the shower than usual.

 (But afterwards, when she’s hunched over her self-slickened fingers and panting, she is equal parts relieved and horrified.)

 (No, not horrified. Terrified. Of how he isn’t Cooper anymore, he’s  _ Sly _ , and he’s stolen past her defences again.)

 

-

 

It’s when she catches herself opening a blank text message to him and not typing a word that she really stops and thinks to herself,  _ what are you  _ doing _? _

 Her break has been lovely, rejuvenating, but at the end of it, she has to go  _ back _ . Interpol is her life; her career. It’s one thing to take a break from it, but another to actively fraternise with a highly sought after criminal. And how could they ever make this work? It’s unethical, it’s immoral,  _ this can not work. _

 Carmelita exits the messaging app, closes her eyes. 

 What does Carmelita want?

 She wants to do good. She wants to serve the people as best as she can.  

 (She wants to tell the gossiping juniors at work to fuck off, she wants her old position back, she wants Cooper hilt-deep inside of her-)

  One of these things is not like the other, one of these things will actively get her arrested, one of these things  _ can not _ continue. 

 

-

 

_ I’m going to be away for a couple of weeks _ , Cooper messages her a few days later.  _ When I get back, I’d love to have dinner again. Perhaps I can show you my favourite place to see the city lights? _

__ Carmelita doesn’t reply. If she does, she’ll say yes. So a couple of weeks pass, weeks where she potters around the house, listless. Cooper doesn’t message her during this period; she assumes it’s because whatever he’s doing is probably incredibly illegal and complex and this makes her feel better. She latches onto this train of thought. He’s probably off robbing an art gallery, stealing a billion dollar painting from the poor, uncared for public.

_  This  _ she can handle. This mentality is the guillotine she drops on her own heart. 

 So on the fourteenth day, the Saturday before she returns to Interpol, Carmelita buys a new phone.  

 

-

 

(She thinks about him all the time. She has several one night stands. It doesn’t help.)

 

-

 

Two months later, Carmelita comes home after a particularly brutal day of paperwork and finds that silver card wedged between her windows once more.

 Her hand shaking, heart in her throat, it says,  _ call me?  _ A number is listed underneath, and Carmelita opens the window and tears the card, shreds it, watches the wind take it away.

“You can’t run from your problems,” Sabra tells her.  _ Why not? _ Carmelita thinks petulantly, and when Sabra asks her when she’s free for her next appointment, Carmelita doesn’t reply.

The next day, she requests a transfer. The next month, she’s stepping into her new squad room in Venice, tentatively reinstated as Inspector. 

 

-

 

During their investigation into the mob that’s been using the opera as a means to traffic drugs and create ungodly amounts of pollution, Carmelita is giving the pleasure of arresting Dimitri Lousteau. He tries to headbutt her as they kick open an apparently abandoned apartment while searching for a snitch called Giovanni, and she sucker punches him stone cold unconscious. As she cuffs the lizard’s wrists, she thinks about Sly, an old pattern worn like stone in her mind even three months of isolation later, and her partner officer takes her wince to be pain from her fractured knuckles.

 She’s trying to leave Sly behind, but it’s so  _ hard,  _ and it’s not just him but- how is Bentley, she wonders. Is Murray still okay? No one has understood what that year was like, not like them, not like Sly, and that night she lies in bed and wonders how things might be if she had invited Sly home with her that night. She wonders if he might have locked away his cane, become a consultant to the Interpol, they could have a little rooftop apartment on the outskirts of Paris and dance together, and-

 Carmelita furiously, aggressively, halts this train of thought. Enough. Let sleeping dogs lie, let this notion of her being out of Paris as wrong fade, she is here now and she will not let what she's clawed for be washed away by this thing that can not be.

 

-

 

Seven months and a promotion to Head Inspector later, Carmelita is feeling like herself again. Her hair in a plait down to her waist, a top of the line shock pistol is in her holster, and some fresh-faced recruits who want to make a difference have just been transferred to her district. It’s ideal. It’s fantastic. 

 Of course, none of the criminals they’ve busted have any style or mystery or  _ intrigue _ , but this is a small complaint considering they’ve almost got Octavio in a chokehold, and the crime has actually reduced since she’s been here. Carmelita’s been incredibly thorough, focusing on the big picture rather than the small fry. Pickpockets trying to feed themselves? She can turn a blind eye to that, she  _ has _ turned a blind eye to that. It’s nothing compared to the ecological havoc Octavio has been wreaking.

 (Sly would be proud. It’s a thought she refuses to entertain.)

 It’s funny. Not funny,  _ pathetic _ , how even after months away from France without even a sighting of the elusive Cooper Gang, her fur is prickling on the base of her tail, the back of her neck. This is exactly the sort of event they would infiltrate, she thinks. There’s several benefactors and supporters of the case against Octavio here tonight, swathed in jewels and valuables, and even more important information stored explicitly offline regarding their plans for Octavio once they’re finally granted a warrant.

_ This building is full of cops, _ she tells herself.  _ He would be a fool to come here. _

__ (But didn’t he once, clad only in a tuxedo and a British accent as a disguise, distract over a hundred people so thoroughly,  _ herself included, _ that they failed to miss the mechanical wings ascending to the ceiling behind them?)

_ You’re being ridiculous, _ Carmelita thinks, quickly reviewing her speech once more before she begins.  _ What would he want with Venice? _

 Frankly, she wouldn’t mind having someone outside of the law with this one. The corrupt government here is a burden, and making it  _ thoroughly _ impossible to get the warrant they need.

_ Focus, focus, _ she tells herself. Her Italian is reasonably good these days, but there’s always room for improvement.

 She’s in the middle of giving her formal early evening welcome to the aforementioned new recruits when an all too familiar voice cuts across her.

 “Hel- _ lo _ assorted meatheads,” Sly Cooper says loudly, eyes twinkling as he leans against the door, twirling that cane of his in hand. “Anyone feel like some exercise?”

 He’s wearing his old dark turtleneck and a pair of trousers, the fur on his chin long enough to pass for a beard-style now, and everyone who’s anyone in Interpol is either staring at him or Carmelita. Her heart is in her throat at the sight of him all lean and confident and her fingers are at her holster all tense and tight, and amidst all of this she’s thanking the heavens she’s in full uniform tonight and  _ not _ the impractical evening dress that Caterine begged her to wear.

(Sly gives her a lazy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. If she cared, she would call it hurt, but she doesn’t, so she  _ doesn’t. _ ) 

But of course, all of this is the calm before the storm. All it takes is the crash of one of the senior officers dropping his bottle of beer and Carmelita is already sprinting out the door after Sly, into the cool Venetian air, and no matter how much she hates it, well. 

It feels like coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again............. and goodbye for now!
> 
> i gotta come clean... after the last chapter I had no clue where to go next, and other projects have taken my interest. so this is the final chapter, because i dont believe in not finishing things if i can help it. perhaps take this fic as the bridge that gives a little more as to why Carmelita decided to try and rehabilitate sly at the end of sly 3. 
> 
> i hope this ending feels as right as it can be under the circumstances!! im still holding out for the movie to grace us in 20 years time or whatever, but i think im quite done with my sly fic in the mean time.
> 
> again, thank you for the lovely comments. you've all been so supportive and gracious, and i hope the movie 1) is released and 2) is everything you want and deserve.
> 
> much love,
> 
> elinadsy


End file.
